Lifetime
by Inescm
Summary: "We just met, true that. But who cares? It was only a few hours ago, and it already feels like a lifetime." Monica and Chandler desperately want to go home, having been dragged to a party they didn't want to attend in the first place. Monica and Chandler don't know each other. This is what happens when two lost people find each other for one night. Young Mondler AU.
1. Junk of the Heart

A/N: After Spain's horrid debut in the World Cup (man, that was embarrassing), I decided to fully dedicate myself to the first chapter of this fic. So, just a couple of quick, introductory things.

This is based on the book 'Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist', collaboratively written by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn. (Not the movie, which was so meh, it pained me.) I'm going to follow the book's plot structure—events that take place during a single night—and I'm also going to alternate narration between Chandler and Monica like the book does with Nick and Norah. Title comes from Noah & The Whale's 'Lifetime', but don't read too much into it. Every chapter is titled after songs by The Kooks (some because it fits, some because the title fits, and some just because I want to), but I got most inspiration from listening nonstop to two particular songs: 'Eskimo Kiss' and 'Junk of the Heart'.

It's gonna be mostly very light stuff, nothing too dramatic. Chandler and Monica don't know each other, and they're not neighbors. Joey and Rachel will be in this too, but not heavily. Their age, what they do, and that kind of stuff will be stated later on, but this is definitely before the first season of the show. Also, I guess it's implied, but this is totally AU. I have the story planned out in my head, but I don't have anything written yet, so if I'm not inspired updates will definitely take a little longer.

And that's all. Now sit back, and hopefully enjoy. And please, let me know what you think!

* * *

**Chandler.**

_"I wanna make you happy,  
__I wanna make you feel alive.  
Let me make you happy,  
I wanna make you feel alive at night."_

These words are blasting in my ears, and they're making my head, my brain, my heart, and my entire body vibrate. God, and to think that it could be as simple as that, just a nice and noisy anecdote, but I don't think I can handle the loud music anymore.

My mouth is dry, my eyes are watery, and my senses are dulled. I'm hot, and that's not a praise of my physical appearance, unfortunately. My brain is suffering from something that may very well be diagnosed as boredom, but the problem is I've never experienced a boredom this intense before—there's a throbbing pain in the front part of my brain, right under the left eyebrow, which, no matter what I do, just won't go away. I'm actually sitting down, because I don't think I can handle getting up.

Just for the record, I'm neither drunk nor high, even if it sounds like it. I want to convince myself I'm just a tad sleep-deprived, given I slept a little over 4 hours last night, and that's considered a mighty sin in my world. The only thing I know for sure is I've been a member of this party for about an hour and a half, and I can already consider it a disaster.

At least that's how things are looking right now—disastrous. I get the feeling that tonight's going to suck big time, and my head is certainly paying the price.

My body produces a groan. I lean forward in my seat, rest my elbows on my knees, and then I rub my eyes with endeavor, trying to rub the pain away. It's not a very sophisticated technique, but it tends to momentarily accomplish what it plans to accomplish. Once the eye-rubbing is over, I tentatively look around and confirm it has slightly worked, so I cran my neck a bit to look for Joey, only Joey's nowhere to be seen.

Here's the thing: Joey's my roommate, and Joey's my best friend, and Joey's an actor, but he's not a very succesful one. I'm saying this because, as a consequence of his unsuccessfulness, Joey has equally unsuccessful friends (mind you, excluding me), who are bent on throwing crappy parties that dangerously resemble this one.

Truth be told, I sometimes think I want Joey to get successful just so he can take me to better parties than the huge fiasco I'm in right now. Christ, can you imagine? Fantastic parties where there aren't passed out people on the floor, and where sophisticated food, sophisticated music, and sophisticated women are the everyday norm.

Sorry. That was mean—and only partly true. Boy, am I a bad person.

However, much to my chagrin, I'm getting the impression that I've become a regular to these kind of events, given I'm awfully familiar with plenty of people here.

Frank Somethingorother is standing in the corner of the room, looking like he wants to vomit. I know this guy because Joey brought him home to watch a Knicks game one evening, and I seem to only remember how this actor-wannabe shamelessly drank all our beer. Oh, the audacity.

One of Joey's seven sisters is also hanging around, but I have no idea which one she is—I suppose we could categorize her as the one that's not pregnant yet, because Tribbianis seem to be very fertile people.

A new song comes in and interrupts my musings. It's something catchy, something fun, something I haven't heard before, but everyone's already on their way of getting completely smashed. I'm afraid they have crossed that drunken line where music simply stops feeling like fun, and it begins feeling like torture.

Nonetheless, torture is being here alone, flagrantly abandoned by my supposed best friend in favor of some random woman he's hoping to bed.

Stupid Joey.

I sit back in my place, crossing my arms and frantically bouncing my leg up and down. There's a guy sitting next to me with a notepad on his lap, a pensive expression on his face, and a pen on his hand, which he's dead set on tapping against every surface possible. My head begins to pound again. I know this is sudden, but I think I want to kill him.

"Gee-whiz," he mutters under his breath, and I wonder if maybe we've been teleported to 1925. He probably didn't intend for me to hear that, but our shoulders are almost touching, and I can practically hear every word that comes out of his mouth. I bet if he knew this, he would've left those outdated expressions at home.

Now that we're on this subject, let's talk about something weird. There are three loners in this party, and we're all sitting on the same couch. The loner leaving his ass-print on the left cushion is me; there's another loner on the far right; and then there's the middle-gee-whiz-mutterer loner, who is sandwiched between Loner #1 and Loner #3. Loners are a very solitary kind, known to never talk to each other, which is why I don't have more profound information on them.

Although Gee-whiz Loner still has the notepad out, and is now furiously scribbling down some things on it, inspiration striking him somehow. Between the notepad, the suede jacket, the creepy facial hair, and the vintage glasses, I've come to the conclusion that he's a pretentious loner. His eyes keep transitioning from his lap to the front door, too, as if he's waiting for someone to burst through it and finally rid him of his loneliness, so he's also a temporal loner, then.

Suddenly, 'What's Up' by 4 Non Blondes becomes the next song in the party's playlist. My stomach freaking churns, but I think someone actually _cheers_. Oh, what a time to be alive—man, I hate this fucking song. This must be the universe alienating itself against me and ordering me to stretch my legs and clear my head a bit, so that's exactly what I do, leaving my loners behind.

I go straight to the bar-slash-kitchen area of this one-room apartment, where there are some comfortable-looking swivel stools. I crash down on one of them, realizing that every alcoholic drink imaginable is found on this countertop. I am struck with amazement to find out that most of these drinks look crazily expensive, too—who knows, maybe Joey is climbing his way up the success ladder after all, and he just forgot to tell me.

Now, I have a serious problem: I'd like to taste some of these, because I like to pretend I am exquisite when I'm actually really ordinary, but the car keys inside my front pocket keep reminding me that I have the duty to drive myself home, too, and hopefully not die in the process.

Whatever the case, my mouth is bone-dry anyway, so I scan the kitchen counter for something, anything that'll wet my windpipe, and hopefully won't make me drunk; a soda, a water bottle, a carton of juice, a carton of milk, a liquid of the Coca-Cola kind. I'll take anything.

I methodically go through every expensive bottle, but there's absolutely nothing alcohol-free here. Seriously, no wonder everybody got drunk so fast, given how they've been fiercely mixing a 12-year-old Chivas Regal with, well, pretty much the blood running through their veins.

I think I need Joey to guide me through this dilemma. He's friends with the resident of this apartment, after all, who can probably help me with my problem.

I get up from my stool and stand on my tiptoes, trying to find him between all these sudden 4 Non Blondes lovers. It doesn't take me much to find him, because, as it turns out, he's relatively close to where I'm standing now, grinding his privates against some blonde's privates—not a very nice image to witness, let me tell you.

I flop down on my seat again, a disheartening sigh escaping my lips. Boredom is striking again, threatening me with the return of The Headache, so I get the brilliant idea of going for a little spin on my swivel stool. It's kind of fun, but it only takes me one spin and a half to realize how stupid I must look to the outside observer.

This reminds me of an embarrassing high school memory that took place during an otherwise forgettable freshman year. Long story short: I was in Biology class, which sort of explains why I, out of boredom or stupidity or I don't know what, started to wonder how the insides of my head looked like and whether I could actually see it with my own eyes or not. And then I, through no fault of my own (really), seriously tried to roll my eyes really far back in my head to check. Anyway, when I finally realized how idiotic I was being, I'm afraid it was too late: a baffled kid on the other side of the classroom was staring at me with this horrified expression on his face, and yeah, it's not the same, but it's not that different either.

Just my luck, Loner #3 is shooting me very amused looks. My instincts are telling me to run for cover and vanish from existence, but I end up staring back, which causes her to look away, and I suddenly regret very deep in my soul having swiveled for a bit.

Come on now. I try to make myself believe that she's just been staring at me because I'm fabulous, and even the best of us can make ridiculous mistakes.

Okay, that's highly improbable. I think I'd just rather go back to my old spot on the couch, where Pretentious Loner will kindly shield me from her without a single complaint. When I do come back, I shrink back in my seat so much, I almost vanish from existence, indeed.

I stay in hiding for about thirty seconds, after which a stunning woman waltzes through the front door, sporting a cocktail dress that seriously makes my jaw drop and my entire body shiver. Ever since my ex cruelly dumped me a couple of months ago, I seem to fall in love with every pretty woman I see—at the grocery store, on the subway, at my great-uncle's funeral, it doesn't really matter.

I'm halfway through a longing, pathetic sigh when my ally on the couch gets up from his seat, goes to her, and then they leave the apartment together, mercilessly uncovering my cover. I feel so ashamed all of a sudden, I don't even wonder how Pretentiousness got to be with Miss Universe. All I can think about is how there's only an empty cushion between myself and the witness of my shame, who's started to curiously stare at me again.

To my mortification, it doesn't take Anonymous Staring Stranger (A.S.S.?!) much time to scoff and shake her head, and I honestly start to fret. "Ugh, look at that," she says over the music, and I think I can literary see her words floating in the uncomfortable air between us. My head whips around, but I shut up and blink quite a lot, because that is my number one rule when it comes to talking women whose words are directed at no one in particular.

It's just, I'm not sure of anything anymore. I'm pretty certain she's looking right into my eyes from the distance, and that must mean something, and so I mutter, as politely as I can, "Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Just, look at that," she says, nodding her head towards something and confusing me more. My eyes skip around the room, but they see nothing of particular interest.

"What?"

"It's just, look right there!" she insists for the last time, wiggling her index finger in the air and pointing it ahead of her. "There's a smarmy bastard right there, trying to sleep with my drunken friend by using his smarmy moves. It's circus-like disgusting!"

Oh, boy. I don't know why, but I suspect I'm going to look at the smarmy bastard, and Joey is going to pop up into my field of vision, showering me, her, and her drunken friend with his best smarmy moves.

And, of course, bingo—no surprise there.

For a moment, I think I'm even more embarrassed because of this than because of my swivelling adventure. That is, until I look at him, happily sucking on Blondie's neck (who's not opposed to his smarmy moves at all, by the way), and he looks in such good spirits while doing it, that I truly think to myself that yeah, way to go, Joey, you go have sex in honor of the ones who will have to keep intact their unwanted celibacy tonight.

So, I'm about to admit my real connection to him, because I think I owe that smarmy bastard that much, but then I take a good look at her, my mouth agape, and everything freaking stops. I look at her, and oh, I just look at her. It's just... Jesus F. Christ, look at her!

My God, I don't even know her, and the freckles dotting her skin are already driving me insane. She's contentedly eating a lace of red licorice, and I can't help but wonder who the hell brings licorice into a party and manages to make it totally endearing.

I know it's sudden, but I think I just fell in love all over again—I think I'm in love with the way she's combining a basic, fitting t-shirt with basic, cigarette jeans, and I think I'm in love with how it seems like she's not even trying to look so fantastically good, but she freaking does, somehow.

I've never seen anyone like her. She's turned out to be so effortlessly gorgeous, I can't really help but stare—I like looking at people that are gorgeous, that's me.

"Heh, sure." I smile tightly at last, opting for the easier way out, which is pretending I don't know him. Joey will have to live with that.

She seems content with my response, returning my smile and gracing me with some affirmative humming. Then, still from the far away distance of the other end of the couch, she suddenly asks, "By the way, do you know what time it is?"

"Uh, yeah." I clear my throat, sitting upright and revealing my watch from under the left sleeve of my favorite shirt—at least I'm not wearing a sack of potatoes, for which I feel really grateful. "It's... okay, yeah. It's almost ten thirty."

"Only ten thirty? Jesus!" she exclaims, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Anyway, thank you." She smiles and waves her hand, turning slightly in her seat and pressing her back against the armrest of the sofa, facing me. "You know, so, okay, you look sorta familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

I ponder over this a little, but then I think that, if this were the case, I'd remember her. "I don't think so, no."

"Well, if you think so, then it must be true," she mocks in a weird tone of voice, still smiling. I'm not an expert on women, but I think I can tell this is a pretty woman acting a bit strange. "So, okay, what're you- are you having fun tonight?"

On the other hand, strange or not, this is when I fully realize that, for whatever reason, an incredibly beautiful woman is trying to spark some kind of conversation, and she's trying to spark some kind of conversation with me, no less, of all people. "Yeah!" I nod, giving her a thumbs up and lying a bit. She narrows her eyes, possibly because she doesn't buy my utterly false affirmation, and so I end up deadpanning, "Actually, no."

And it must all be in the delivery, folks, because she lets out this magnificent laugh, which comes out of her as if she just invented the sound, and as if she were the first human producing it, and as if I were the first human experiencing it. This is silly, but it makes me feel special. It doesn't even last long, but Christ, that was a wonderful sound.

"Okay, me neither," she admits around that laugh, chewing on her last piece of licorice. "Things are a bit slow tonight, don't you think?"

"_Really_ slow," I say, nervously chuckling.

"Yeah," she says, biting her lip to keep from nervously chuckling, too. "Okay."

I've noticed she tends to say "okay" quite a lot. Nervous habit? Perhaps. As a side note, Joey and Blondie are interchanging fluids on the other side of the room now, and it's not like she's pushing him away.

Coming up with interesting conversational topics doesn't seem to be our strong suit, because my companion on the couch has quickly fallen silent. Since uncomfortable silences are a nemesis of mine I keep trying to fight with more than disastrous results, I end up falling silent too.

But, I try looking at her from the corner of my eye, wanting to avoid seeming too hopeless. She's bouncing her leg on the floor repeatedly now, and she has her arms wrapped across her chest in a way that makes it look as if she's just hugging herself. The bouncing leg is usually a nervous habit of mine, but I can see why it's considered quite an annoying one.

I don't know why, but a big chunk of me is expecting Joey to drunkenly stumble up to me any second, acting as if he just wants to ruin my life by blowing my story, given how my life tends to be that calamitous. No time for that, though, must think the universe while neatly wrapping up a very unrealistic and spooky present for me: this nameless woman's leg abruptly stops, and this nameless woman rapidly shifts her gaze to me, and then this nameless woman closes the distance between us with determination but without uttering a single word, and in the quarter of the second that it takes her to get to me, my expression changes from amazed, to mildly perplexed, to just plain shocked.

"Hey," she says with an adorable voice I don't end up catching because I'm too wrapped up in how weird and confusing this is. Sudden proximity? Not my thing, either.

But I say "hey" back anyway, and I notice her eyes are blue. I wonder if the ocean opens up when she laughs. I know I should be concentrating on more important stuff, but I think her eyes are a work of art. She bites her lower lip, and now my eyes are the ones following the action. And then she giggles, out of a lack of things to say, maybe; or out of a lack of nerve to say them.

"Hi," she's like, drawing out the vowel.

"Hi back," I'm like, shortening the vowel.

"Listen, can I ask you something arbitrary?" she blurts, and I feel grandly suspicious that her use of the word arbitrary is not at all arbitrary.

"Oh, yeah, s-sure," I squeak, and other than mouthing a silent 'okay,' she doesn't immediately, arbitrarily answer, because what she does is arbitrarily rest her left hand against the side of my neck, her thumb gently grazing my Adam's apple, and she arbitrarily closes her right hand around what I'd consider my favorite shirt, but I'm starting to think that the word 'favorite' loses all its power when you compare it to this very moment, and before I can sing praises to heaven, she starts to arbitrarily lean over, and no, wait, I wasn't expecting this, abort, abort, abort, the unexpectedness of this is making me very scared. "Uh, wai- are you- what are you doin'?"

I say that, but of course I'm not moving. Instead, every single, minute, useless hair in my body is sticking out, and all my muscles are reflexively flexing themselves, and my heart is beating along with the tempo of the unbelievable music enveloping us.

She pushes back a little, looking deep into my eyes. "Don't freak out, I just want to ask you something, remember?" she calmly says, and oh dear God, her lips and her breath are so close to my neck right now, delicately whispering something into my ear. Somehow, her words are physically sticking to my skin, and I must be living through one hell of a supernatural experience, because I can clearly feel her words there, which is why I don't even need to listen to know what they're nicely asking of me.

"If I ask you nicely," she's nicely asking me, "would you be willing to drive me home tonight?"

And I'm sorry, but what the hell?

Okay, first of all, she was certainly right—that was arbitrary, and without any explanation and so out-of-context, it's definitely bizarre. Second of all, I know I just described this as though it happened in slow-motion, but it actually happened so fast, everyone else in the room must have no recollection of the incident. Then again, it probably wasn't as sensual, either, but my mind definitely believes it was.

Fuck, I think I just forgot how to breathe. And I think my heart just forgot how to pump blood. And I think I just forgot how normal life feels like.

But mainly, I think I just forgot that, up until this point, my life's been short, and my life's been uneventful, and maybe that's why I believe this is the most confusing experience of my entire life, which has been painfully short and uneventful.

On a scale from 1 to Chandler, how bad is it if I run away?


	2. Mr Nice Guy

**Monica.**

I despise myself.

"Well?" I prompt him.

I deeply, profoundly despise myself. Not only did I just shamelessly come on to a guy I don't know—at a party I don't even like!—but I also did it in a deeply despising way in order to enhance my chances of getting what I need.

The guy's surprised, which isn't all that surprising. He's nervous, too, and I know this because I've devilishly rested my hand on his neck, right where the vein that transports blood from head to south is pulsating against my fingertips so frantically I'm surprised it hasn't exploded yet.

Also, somewhere along the line—don't ask when—the other hand unintentionally drifted down from around his shirt to his thigh.

I couldn't blame him if this were the case, but between my acting all slutty and his being a guy, I'm afraid to look at his downstairs business in case I've elicited in him the inevitable boner.

I did drop my voice an octave, after all, so I wouldn't really be that surprised.

Anyway, it takes him forever to open his mouth a little. He looks like he wants to say something, but can't bring himself to say it. He swallows, he squirms, he swallows again. "I'm sorry, but I don't even know you," he apologetically says. "I'm actually very confused right now."

Not fair—that was a very well-thought-out answer for a guy with a possible erection. It infuriates me. He's probably right, whatever, and in his right to refuse, but this does not help with the rejection.

"Shit, get off of me!" I abruptly order, pushing him backward lightly—as if he was the one to jump me—his back pressed to the armrest already. He actually reacts like a scared child, sinking into the sofa, mouthing a harmless "okay," and raising his palms in the air.

However, I won't let that soften me. Damn you, schmuck.

I disentangle myself from him and go back to where I probably belong, which is the other end of the couch. I fold my arms across my frame and sigh, adding new dimensions to the simple action of sulking.

Allow me to take a moment to clear things up: I don't actually despise myself. In reality, I simply despise my best friend and dear roommie Rachel, which sounds a little incongruous, but that's fine.

According to Rachel, staying home on a saturday night is a terrible crime. But let me tell you something: a crime is how insistent she can get when she wants something.

I had no desire whatsoever to go out, so I refused to dress up and even bring a purse with me, foolishly thinking that leaving Rachel with the responsibility of dealing with my money and keys was a fantastic idea.

Schmuck says it's only ten thirty, but Rachel's already drunk all my money away at some crappy, mariachi-themed bar, and when that got boring pretty fast, she dragged me to this dump to "party." I hope this somehow explains why I'm throwing myself at prospective guys that could get us home safe, because let's remember: no car, no money, no sober Rachel.

And sure, a lesson would be nice, but I think her getting brutally murdered in a dark alley would be taking things too far.

Anyway, I was about to start crying in a corner or something similar to get someone to pity me, when this dude embarrassed himself by spinning on a bar stool in public—mind you, it was actually kind of endearing—and then moped around the bar area for a while, proving me that he's an alcohol abstainer, and, according to the puppy-eyed look he gave a bottle of whiskey, definitely not one by choice.

He's young, about my age, looks non-threatening, and he's the kind of douche that wears his keys inside the front pocket, but leaves the key chain on the outside, even when the key chain is a ridiculous red and plastic soccer ball that led me to believe he's got a car.

He also knows the guy that's been smothering Rachel the whole night—they walked in together, patting each other backs like quasi-machos—but he feels embarrassed enough to pretend he doesn't know him when asked. That means he's a decent, non-dangerous boy. Probably.

I don't know, he seemed like the perfect choice for it, don't you think? I actually tried to strike up a conversation with him, but he didn't shine for his talkative skills, and I had no idea how to broach the subject at hand.

And then my ethics flew out the window and I was crowned as the most unorthodox lady in all North America. I firmly believed that getting a guy all high on sexual powers would make him say yes, absolutely. But, as you already know, I was wrong—oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I think this has made me settle on the idea of putting an end to my "pleasing people" days. Look what they've gotten me into. Now, since I'm not sure I can one-hundred-percent pull that stunt off, I am indeed sure this guy's going to be my first target—a practice target, if you may. I am _so_ ready to be mean to him, I'm tingling with anticipation.

Heck, he freaking deserves it. Right?

I size him up a little from the distance, watching him vacantly stare ahead of him and probably wonder what just happened. To be honest, this is going to be hard: he's quite an unremarkable chap. He's wearing a light blue, button-up shirt with jeans, and really, that's it.

Or not. His clothes seem nice, but he acts all sloppy about the way he wears them—his shirt is untucked, the top buttons are undone, and there's not even a flimsy t-shirt underneath. To prove my point even further, he just started rolling up his sleeves, not even using a sophisticated technique and going for the messy way instead. That's not going to last, I'm afraid.

Then there are his shoes; I could definitely say something mean about his shoes. He's wearing black Chucks—fake black Chucks—and they're unkempt and dirty, to the point that it's making me want to pull all my hair out. The white toes have turned completely grey by excessive use and dirt, and so has the black fabric of the shoes. He's so careless, my skin _is_ crawling.

Plus, he's not muscular or strong or anything like that. He's more on the scrawny side of things, although not in the awful way. I think the right word is skinny, actually. Truth be told, it's just making me want to cook him a little something.

He's got nice hair, though. Brown-ish hair that wants to stay up, but that kind of falls in his face when he doesn't run his hands through it for, like, 30 seconds. It's not that long, but even if the way it sticks out in some random places is totally adorable, I think I'd definitely give it a cut, if only because, well- Wait a minute, what am I doing? This is not mean!

"Christ, Chandler, here you are! Sittin' all by yourself!" A pretty brunette with an accent comes up to him and, in all seriousness, pats his head and ruffles his hair. He seems pretty bothered by it at first, but they talk for a second anyway. He tells her something I'm not interested in catching, and then she nods, turning around and leaving.

Once she's left, he absolutely wastes no time in running both hands through his hair to take it back to its previous and very nice sloppiness. You know, I think I'd like to run my fingers through his hair. Bold move, but I'll bet that'd feel fantastically nice.

Sorry. Monica back to Earth—that revelation was actually a very good one. He's either named Christ or he's named Chandler, and I don't know which one would be more ridiculous. Mean Monica has been rewarded with some delicious ammunition, and Mean Monica snorts. I assume he's not named Christ.

"Ha, seriously? Chandler?" Another snort. His head whips around, sporting that trademark confused face of his again. "What kind of name is _that_?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Oh, I'm so mean.

"Yeah, I did, but- Yeah, well-" A scoff is everything he can come up with, poor thing. "Well, what's _your_ name?"

"Monica."

"Well, that- that's-" he fumbles his words. "Fuck me, that's actually a very nice name."

I will pretend he did not just tell me to fuck him, but his voice is very low as he finishes the sentence in a mumble, and I don't think Mean Monica is supposed to exist, for I start to feel very bad for him all of a sudden.

For all I know, it's not like he decided to name himself that way. Gee, he's probably had to endure those snickering remarks all his life—my God, what have I done, I am just another despicable bully in a world filled with despicable bullies!

"Wait, no, sorry, I'm so so sorry!" I slide myself across the sofa in one swift motion, covering my mouth with both hands. "That was so mean! I'm sorry!"

He lets out a long sigh. "Look, don't worry about it," he shortly says. He's pulling this obliging face that suggests he's probably tired of it by now and doesn't even care anymore. He's merely missing the I-don't-give-a-crap shrug.

"No, but I shouldn't have said that," I offer. "That was very cruel of me."

"Seriously, it's OK." He waves his hand dismissively, trying to make me feel better, and now I feel even worse. He finally shrugs, as if he doesn't give a crap. "My name's a joke, all right. I'm kinda used to it anyway."

I'm definitely worried about my peace of mind, but I think I like this guy. He seems decent enough—sloppiness and dirty Chucks aside—and I'm the one making things impossibly difficult.

"Listen, can we, like, pretend the last ten minutes didn't happen? I don't know about you, but I've had a couple of drinks,"—this is untrue—"and I'm kind of, like, in dire need of a ride,"—this is not untrue—"and I've been, like, acting on impulse the whole night, and seriously, I don't even know what just happened."

"Well, that makes two of us, at least," he says, flashing me with a little half-smile. "But sure, absolutely nothing happened." His tone of voice has turned sort of funny now, and that smile is still blinding my judgment. "Who the hell are you, in fact?"

I reach out my hand and offer it to him, saying, "Well, hello, sir. My name's Monica." And he's hesitant at first, but then he eagerly takes it, jumping onto the introduction train, and going all, "Hi, Monica. I'm Roger." And I give him a sideways, suspicious glance, and our hands stop shaking each other, but they don't ever stop being together.

"Be serious, your name's not Roger!"

"See, but you can't possibly know that. I don't want you to laugh at me again, so I thought that, maybe, from now on, I'd just be Roger."

Here's the thing: he's a natural. Sarcastic remarks fly out of his mouth with ease, even when he's not being sarcastic at all. Maybe it's the intonation.

"All right, fair enough—sounds reasonable."

"Us Rogers are very reasonable people, I'll let you know that."

"That's good to know." I don't know why, but his hand is still in mine, and I have to admit it does feel nice and warm. "Anyway so, _Roger_," I continue, and he smiles, nervously playing with the hair at the back of his head with his free hand, "why are you attending such a boring party?"

"I just... know some people here, and there's pretty much nothing else to do." He gives me the shrug again. "And you?"

"I don't actually know anyone here," I say, and he nods like he's hanging on my every word, exactly like I like people to hang on my every word. "But my friend Rachel does, and she thought this party could be some kind of fun, so here I am."

"Clearly, she was wrong." He smiles that stupid smile once again, and in between my laugh and his laugh, I actually think my heart does some sort of silly, strange, and flutter-y thing inside my chest.

I'll tell you something wonderful: this guy's mouth is a wonder. When he's not smiling, his mouth seems to be permanently pulled into this cute and small frown that totally disappears when he shows the world a half-smile where his teeth just take the spotlight of the entire room and planet.

And it's funny, because they're not even perfectly lined up or anything, but I think that's exactly what makes that crooked, silly, lopsided grin work. The unremarkable chap has turned out to have quite a remarkable smile. What a pleasant surprise.

My throat has tightened because of all the joy, but I croak out, "Yeah, I'll admit Rachel tends to be wrong a lot."

His lips part to say something—I'll bet it was funny—but this is when, speak of the devil, Rachel cuts him off and flops down onto the little space between us, burying her head in my lap and putting an end to our ridiculous-but-endearing hand-holding.

"I wanna go home," she mutters, her voice muffled. Rachel is very concise when she's drunk and wants things.

"Hey, but sweetie, weren't you having fun with a guy or something?" I pat her hair comfortingly, and her head suddenly raises from my lap and looks at me like she's ready to start rambling or crying or both. Behind Rachel, Chandler is looking at me with very amused eyes.

"Sure, what a hottie. He promised to call me, but I don't think I'm feeling it, you know?" I don't think I do, but my head nods by reflex anyway. "I mean, I'm so tired of being dudeless, but young dudes are only interested in having a stupid fling and that's not what I need right now, right?" Her head turns a bit toward Chandler's direction, who is nodding along with her words, and she says "hi" to him but then her mind fully registers there's a complete stranger sitting right next to her, which makes her eyes go all "Mon, there's a dude sitting right here" without actually having to say the words aloud.

"Oh, sorry, I guess you two don't know each other," I intercept, acting all casual, because messing with Rachel when she's under the influence is fun. "Rach, this very nice gentleman right here is my newfound friend Roger."

Chandler flashes her one of those smiles and holds his hand out, and Rachel kindly takes it before abruptly swatting it away, groaning, and being all, "Ugh, Roger! Do not mention any Roger in my presence! Do you not remember Roger Cavanaugh and what he did to me?" And I'm thinking how could I not, since anyone that knows Rachel Green is familiar with The Roger Cavanaugh Story, all right.

I dramatically roll my eyes. "I'm afraid that guy is well-known within your circle of friends and acquaintances, Rach."

"Yeah, you're probably right. But we just met, so..." Her body quickly rolls over to Chandler, clueing him in on the details and leaving me out of them. "See, Roger was this super-handsome dude that always looked like he was just coming from the gym. And not because he smelled gross or anything—he smelled fantastic, in fact— but actually because his clothes always looked like they could not hold all those muscles inside of them, all very Hulk-like, but without the green. You know what I'm talking about?"

Chandler tentatively says, "Eh, yes?"

"But seriously, listen to my words: you'd need to fill up those clothes real nicely if you wanted to even get close to what that guy looked like. He was like four sizes bigger than you—and all muscle, no fat. He could destroy you, easily, with the force in his thumb alone."

"Um, thank you?"

"You're welcome. But no, muscles always get me a little sidetracked. What I'm trying to say is, everything in our relationship was going great; funny guy, good dresser, abs to die for, not too smart, but not too dumb either—he was freakishly perfect! That is, of course, until he got his way with me and we slept together." Rachel's back is turned to me, but I think her eyes are filling up with very real tears, her voice quavering. "You look like you're the smart type, so see if you can answer me this: Do you think I've heard from him since that happened?"

"Uh, no?"

"Of course I haven't! That bigorexic bastard!" Now I can hear sniffling. I'm surprised by how eloquent she's being, to be honest. "So, what is wrong with me? Please, be honest with me and tell me, smart guy: Do I really look like the kind of girl that's just looking for a meaningless fling? Am I really that transparent?"

"Oh, no?"

I have to tell you: he's handling this perfectly. Rachel is more than content with his monosyllabic responses, as if he's not adding a question mark at the end of every one of them. She pats his hand like she's really grateful, and then mouths a very heartfelt "thank you," wiping away her tears, and he waves his hand in the air like it's no big deal. Unbelievable.

"Who was this guy again?" She suddenly turns to me, now excluding him of the conversation. "He seems nice."

"His name's Chandler, actually." Rachel simply nods. I don't think she clearly remembers the Roger introduction—drunk people are a big mystery to me. Behind her, Chandler pulls a weird face and starts covering his mouth with one hand. I think he's about to sneeze or something.

"Yeah, Chandeler." She shrugs. "I'm so not gonna remember that." Oh, who would've guessed—it was a yawn. His blue eyes are starting to look watery, as if he's suddenly very tired. That Roger story will kill someone one day, I'm telling you. "Monica, hey, look at me." Rachel tries to snap her fingers in front of my face, and I realize my interest in her is diminishing. "Can we seriously consider going home now, please? I'm not feeling so hot at the moment," she says, and then adds in a secret whisper I'm the only one privy to, "I actually think I'm a little bit drunk."

This brings a big laugh out of me. "Wow, it's not even eleven o'clock and we're all ready to sleep the night off. What a doozy!"

"What?" Rachel asks, her expression blank. First and only joke of the night, and it goes horribly wrong.

"Ah, sure, Rach, we can go home," I say, and her face rapidly perks up. "Do you know someone here that could drive us home? Because we've got no money, so unless you wanna walk home..."

And her face perks down just as fast. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"Well, because I don't actually know anyone here! I was lying so you'd wanna come with me and have some good, party fun!" Rachel gapes at me, and I pull my hands up to my face, because punching a drunken woman is not a nice thing to do. "So we really have no money? Oh, my gosh, Monica! What have you done with it?"

"What have_ I_ done with it? In case you've forgotten, you are the one that wasted it all on those tequila shots and fancy drinks with the little umbrellas in them because they looked cute!" I start telling her off, kind of shouting at her. "Oh, and then you also gave twenty dollars to that mexican guy so you could wear his stupid sombrero!"

"Did I? Really?"

"Yes, you did! And then you told me to eff myself because I tried to take your purse with my money away from you!"

"Really? Did I?"

I swear, this woman's about to face the uproar of a century. "Oh, my God. I can't believe what I'm hearing! You are so-"

"Hey, hey, listen, ladies. No need to fight over this, really," Chandler cuts in with that stupid smile of his and his stupid conciliatory tone. "I'm tired, and bored out of my mind here—I'll drive you guys home, no worries."

"Really?" Rachel looks like she's about to start crying again. "You would do that for us?"

"Absolutely, it's no big deal," he says, taking his stupid soccer ball key chain out of his pocket. "I mean, you just told me The Roger Cavanaugh Story—we're practically best friends now."

"Aw! Isn't he nice?" she rhetorically asks me, practically beaming. "Thank you so much, Mister... Nice Guy, whatever. Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Chandler."

"Chandler!" she coos, giving his knee a friendly pat. "Mon, that's a very nice and original name, isn't it?"

"Sure it is," I say through, and I'm not particularly proud to admit this, very gritted teeth.

See, the fact that I've finally found a chauffeur is supposed to make me feel better, but it really doesn't. I practically threw myself at this guy before, and it did nothing on him. Now Rachel does the dumb crying show and he drools all over it? Give me a break. I want to laugh at his name again.

"Oh, boy." Rachel suddenly leans forward in her seat and buries her face in her arms, interrupting this hostility fit on my part. "Sorry, I gotta go to the bathroom," she announces, weakly getting up and then tottering toward what I hope is the bathroom.

"OK. That was an incredibly fascinating experience to live," he says in the midst of a chuckle once she's gone, his eyes fixed on the bathroom door.

"Well, that's Rachel for you."

"Charming," he says. After a couple of seconds, his eyes start skipping around the room, and then they miraculously land on me, Monica Geller, with arms crossed and bulk lowered, and he starts mauling his own lip, his right arm dangling off the back of the couch. "Hey, are you OK?"

"Sure I'm OK." What am I supposed to say? I have no idea where this stab of crazy and irrational envy is coming from, anyway. "Why would you ask that? That's silly."

"Well, because I know I just met you," he effectively points out, "but you look mad, somehow. Have I done something wrong?"

"What? No!" I fidget, almost breaking into a cold sweat, and then I add, "Where are you getting that from? I'm not mad! You're mad!" Which I'll admit is not the best response in the world, and he goes all, "What?" And I, too, am like, "What?" And it's so ridiculous that we both burst out laughing softly without really knowing why.

But I _am_ mad, though. I just don't know the reason—that's the problem.

"But hey. You sure you're OK?" he asks once we've calmed down, once I've returned to my sulking state.

"Yes, maybe, I don't know," I shrug, giving it a try. "Maybe I am a little upset because you bluntly rejected me before, but then off Rachel went with her car problems and you were more than ready to help her. I don't know, I'm sure it's all a temporal Freudian slip of the crazed mind or something, so don't worry about it, please."

"Wow. That's it?" I warily nod. He huffs a laugh. "You will admit that the technique you used before was a little bit out there, though, right? I mean, that was probably the weirdest, most fantabulous moment of my entire life. I just had no idea how to react to it."

"Really?"

"Sure! I mean, if you'd come to me with your problems like a normal person, I totally would've driven you to the moon and back, no question."

"Really?" I ask again, my smile growing bigger by the second.

"Of course! You can imagine my surprise, after almost slowly dying of boredom at the worst party ever held, to have a very pretty and very unknown girl come over to ask me to please, oh please, drive her home! So weird! I thought I was dreaming, or in heaven, or something like that."

"Really?" I swear I am usually a very articulate person—I don't know what's wrong with me tonight. "Wait, you think I'm pretty?"

"Uh, yeah." He blushes, acting like he doesn't know what to do with his own face. "Sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. See, I shouldn't have said that. I'm very bad, awful in fact, when it comes to women, and I tend to, like, stray a lot from what I'm actually trying to say, which is: no, I wouldn't have minded driving you home in the first place. And OK, don't listen to me anymore, please. I'll definitely shut up now."

"No, please, don't shut up," I request, giving him a smile that will hopefully be as efficient as his. "It's actually a lot of fun watching you trip all over your own words."

"Yeah, I bet it is," he says, returning my smile and returning my gaze and returning all my insecurities back to place.

Excuse me, but are we flirting? Yes or no, I can't help but get the feeling that maybe, after all that's happened at this strange party, he simply _is_ Mr. Nice Guy. And that is all, and I'm glad.

"So, tell me," he continues, clearing his throat, "did you actually wear that stupid sombrero?"

I giggle a bit. "Of course. It cost us twenty bucks."

"Nice."

"And they called me little muchacha, and everything."

"Very nice."

And this would've been very nice, too, except this is when Rachel falters over to where we're sitting, breaking our unscripted spell, and begging us to, for the love of God, take her home. To be honest, her hair's a mess, her dress is wrinkled, her makeup is smeared, and she should have made sure there was no leftover vomit in the corner of her mouth before getting out of the bathroom.

I think it's my duty to "sweetie" her a lot, and Chandler quickly gets up to help her, draping one of her arms over his shoulder, trying to prevent some drunken casualties, and when I'm collecting her purse from the couch, Rachel gets the brilliant idea of slurring the following, patting Chandler's chest: "You know, God knows I have a weakness for documented jerks. But Monica here is very, very single, and she happens to like very, very nice boys."

I know I'm not in middle school anymore, but red spots probably flare on my cheeks, and I yelp, "Rachel!"

"Nah," Chandler says, acting way cooler about it than me, "she's way too pretty for me, you know."

And then he actually, almost imperceptibly winks an eye at me, and oh, we're definitely, one hundred percent flirting. Maybe it's not happening in the conventional way, but neither one of us is very conventional, so who cares.

"And now, señoritas, let's adiós and vamos!" he says. I can't help it—I laugh. Then we stumble to the front door, trying to help Rachel move like a normal person, and I realize I involuntarily have this idiotic smile plastered on my face the entire time, and that's when the situation fully hits me.

Wait. Oh, dear God. No. I'm sorry, but I can't quite believe I just cranked my jealousy levels up to a maximum because of an unremarkable chap named Chandler.

No, that did just not happen.

* * *

A/N: I loved Perry's smile before he got his teeth fixed, what can I say. Anyway, I hope you can handle all the ridiculousness, because I'm a very unserious person. And please, leave me a little something if you can, because every time someone reads the thing but doesn't say anything, my heart slowly withers away (scientifically proven stuff!). And sorry updates won't come as quick—I'm doing stuff, Lori. Things.


	3. Around Town

A/N: Here's a long ass chapter to establish some background. Heartfelt thanks to the people who reviewed when I was getting the impression that this story was just a big mess no one was really enjoying. You're the best. Now, off to watch some World Cup! Hopefully Benzema will score six goals and lift my spirits.

* * *

Monica's friend looks light, but let me tell you something: she's not. Whatever. It's either her false lightness or my exceptional weakness, and I don't want to know.

Helping her out the door has been a walk in the park compared to how difficult it is for a person with poor coordination to go down a flight of stairs. It's been downright torture.

Five agonizing minutes later, and we're finally out on the street, much closer to our main destination: my baby, the love of my life, the only thing I've earned by myself in this life—my car.

Monica is happily skipping ahead of us, looking for the vehicle with my keys in her hand, and she looks so happy, I don't have the heart to force her to carry with me the sudden mess her friend has turned into.

Anyway, I don't know what she's looking for, or what she's expecting, but when I stop right in front of my car and tell her that this is it, she looks impressed. Actually, I think she's salivating.

You see, my beloved-by-me, ridiculed-by-others, dark blue 1978 Buick LeSabre is parked right behind a very fancy, very unspecified black SUV that I think only FBI agents drive, so she must've gotten the wrong idea.

"Uh, my car's actually this one," I timidly say, nodding my head in its direction. Her expression turns crestfallen.

"Oh."

"Come on, don't look so disappointed—I worked my ass off to buy this car," I point out, and then, if only because I've got a heavy Rachel dangling off my side, quickly tell her, "Now, could you please open the back door for me?"

"Oh, sure! Sorry."

She does as I kindly ask, and in the meantime I readjust Rachel's arm around my shoulders. She's drunkenly mumbling something impossible for humans to decipher and patting my chest. Not that interesting, probably.

As I finally go around the car to place Rachel in my backseat once Monica's opened the door for me, I tell her: "You know, my mother offered to buy me a brand new Ferrari Testarossa at first, traditionally red and all, but I declined."

I don't know why I've decided to clue her in on this, but her jaw drops to the floor. Not literally, but that would've been a funny image.

"That was a joke," I carelessly say once I've safely made it to the open door, backing it to prevent it from closing.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Monica laughs, like she's very relieved or something. "I was about to smack you in the head for being a dummy!"

"Yeah, it was actually a black Alfa Romeo," I grunt, easing Rachel into my backseat. Monica opts for lending me a hand, and thankfully not for smacking my head.

"Are you crazy?" she says, her face dangerously close to my face in the little free space of the backseat that Rachel herself is not occupying. I don't know if this is creepy, but her breath is grazing my skin and I like it. "Who the hell is your mom, and why the hell did you refuse?"

"Because money can't buy love, Monica." I lean forward a little, struggling to fasten Rachel's seatbelt. "I haven't done anything in my life to deserve a car like that. I dunno, it's like a pride thing or something."

"Okay, yeah. I can understand that." _Click_. Rachel's fastened. "But now seriously, who's your mom?"

"See, I don't really wanna answer that. It's very embarrassing." I pull back, and she pulls back, too, and now we're not as close, but we're both breathing the same fresh, polluted air from the city and not Rachel's alcoholic breath. "My parents are a topic I'd like to save for, like, our 17th outing. At least."

"Wow. That embarrassing, huh?" she says, eyeing me with pity or fright or pitiful fright.

"Worse."

"Okay, wow," she swallows. "I'll bring it up during our 17th outing, then."

"Appreciated." I smile widely, running an exhausted hand through my hair. The possibility of still being in contact with this woman in the foreseeable future excites me. Does that make me too pathetic?

Whatever the case, Rachel is starting to make weird noises inside my car, so I don't have more time to ponder over it. Uh-oh. She looks so pale all of a sudden that a terrifying possibility just crossed my mind. Please, no.

"She okay?" I ask, and Monica shrugs.

I bent down a bit and take Rachel's face in my hand, forcing her to look at me. Unfortunately, chatty Rachel has all but disappeared, and what's left is a woman that looks like she's off visiting some parallel universe. Her eyelids are closed, but her eyeballs are probably drifting very back in her head.

"Rachel, look at me," I say in my best authoritarian voice, but man, she's not fond of my idea. "Please. I'm begging you. Do not throw up in my car, please."

See, I freak out big time when Joey wants to bring food into my car. And you should probably know this: Joey's always bringing food into my car, no matter how many times I tell him not to. In all seriousness, I think I'd die if someone puked in my car. I'm not exaggerating.

"She's not gonna throw up, don't worry," Monica points out, very matter-of-factly.

"How can you possibly know that? Have you seriously seen her face? She looks like she's gonna throw up, and she looks like she's gonna do it right now." I quickly look at Rachel, in case she's getting an idea. "Please, don't throw up right now. Please."

"God, Chandler, stop smothering her, you're gonna make her throw up." Monica slaps me on the chest, and yeah, like that's a thing that happens. "Now give her some space, come on."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not very comfortable around vomit. The possibility of cleaning that up makes me-" I cringe. I make a face. "Ugh, it makes me wanna-" No time to finish that, since this is when Rachel decides to make another noise, lean forward, and throw up. "Oh, fuck!"

Needless to say, I'm not particularly proud of how much that startled me.

But anyway, thank you, God Almighty, she thoughtfully did it right on the asphalt, leaving my car and shoes completely free of vomit.

However, it's still disgusting—oh, the retching noises she's making, dear God. I back out of the crime scene as much as I can, but the open door is not letting me. When I realize this, I carefully go around it, pulling my shirt up to cover part of my face.

"See what you've done?" Monica says, coming to Rachel's rescue and pulling her hair out of her face. Rachel's quietly whimpering. What a deeply ridiculous scene. "Ugh, this is your fault."

Never mind blaming all the alcohol she's ingested. No, this is _my_ fault. Sure.

"You know, I think I'm very deep in my soul regretting this decision. Why don't I just call you guys a cab instead? My treat, I promise." Naturally, I'm joking, but Monica looks at me like I'm a monster. "Just kidding, by the way."

"Look, why don't you just get behind the wheel? You're probably dying to get out of here, anyway," Monica suggests, exasperated. "I'll be there in just a minute."

"Yeah, thanks, but you have my keys," I point out. She quickly throws them at me, and I catch them mid-air. Okay, that's surprising. Then, right before darting to the driver's door, I call, just in case, "And Rachel, please, don't throw up any more."

Monica must look at me with murderous eyes, but I make sure to turn my back to her before that happens.

Once I've eased myself into my seat and I've closed the door behind me, I carefully roll down my window. I don't know why I do that—bad habit, superstition, whatever—but it's always the first thing I do when I get in. I seem to enjoy how the wind hits me in the face when I'm driving, very doggy-like.

The mid-April air fills the car, and I feel like I can finally relax again. Behind me and as seen through my rearview mirror, Rachel's still whimpering, and Monica's still comforting her.

I fasten my seatbelt, take a deep breath, run my fingers through my hair, and then I look down at my lap, where my keys are resting. I don't want it to, but the mood suddenly changes, somehow.

I don't know how long I stay in this position, but at least until Monica is sitting beside me on the passenger seat, seatbelt on and everything. I'm so wrapped up in my own world that not even the door being firmly shut startles me; the sound of her voice does.

"Why are you looking at your ball?" she says, looking at me. Under normal circumstances, I could've come up with 56 different jokes regarding that ill-phrased question. I can only think of two—tonight's simply not my night, man.

"Sorry. I was just... thinking, I guess." I shrug. "About stuff, it's okay."

See, the thing is I hate this stupid keychain of a soccer ball. Bad memories and all, whatever. It doesn't even matter, because Monica doesn't seem to be very interested in the stuff I'm thinking about, as she suddenly asks, "By the way, your friend doesn't need you to give him a ride?"

This makes me laugh at first. "Nah, Joey's probably on his way to someone else's bed. He doesn't need my help at all," I say, and then I look at her, with her mouth pulled into a mischievous smile, as if she's helping me pinpoint what's so wrong with that question. "Wait, no. How do you know about Joey?"

"Because I know everything."

My eyebrows dart up. "Okay, that's some scary ass shit."

"I know!" She smiles mischievously again, and then goes back to the stuff I was thinking about, as if this interruption never happened, "Anyway, do you feel self-conscious about your ball or something? 'Cause I like your ball."

God, it's way too hard for me to concentrate when hundreds of genitalia jokes are running through my brain. Too hard. I don't know how or why, but my serious side seems to win and I manage to push them aside for a second.

I bring my keychain to eye-level. "You like this thing? Really?"

"Sure. I think it's original." That smells like enormous lie, but I'm not about to waste such a golden opportunity. "I mean, it's just a key chain, who cares."

"Alright, then..." I start trying to slide the chain attached to the plastic soccer ball out of the keyring, which turns out to be way harder than expected. Monica tries to help me, but I wave her off—this feels personal. When I finally succeed, like, seven hours later, I hand it to her and say, "Here. It's all yours."

"All right." She offhandedly shrugs. I seriously thought she was going to throw it out my open window. But no, she opens Rachel's purse on her lap instead, and carefully places the ball inside. "Why don't you like it? I mean, really, it's just a plastic thingy."

"I dunno. Lots of reasons. For instance, it doesn't even fit very well inside my pocket—it makes my pants look like I've got a hard-on." She laughs at this, and it brings a chuckle out of me. "Plus, it was a goddamned present from my girlfriend. I suppose that's got something to do with it, too."

"Your girlfriend?"

"Sorry, huge mistake: ex-girlfriend," I correct myself, nervously chuckling.

"Oh, all right." My mistake was sincerely unintended, and I don't want to get my hopes too high, but I think she looks, I don't know, relieved? Less bothered, maybe.

"But anyway, I guess when the only gift someone gives you during a relationship is that cheap keychain, it must be because they don't really like you very much. I was just too dumb to notice, I guess."

"Come on, I'm sure that's not true," she says. "I'm sure she liked you a lot."

"Well, she cheated on me, so I'm pretty certain she liked someone else a lot better."

"Oh, sorry," she says, chewing on her lower lip. "Are you, like, on the rebound, or something like that?"

"No," I shrug her question off. Mind you, it's true—I'm really not. "Naturally, I don't like being cheated on, but it's been a while. I'm a big boy, I've had plenty of time to get over it."

Monica nods, not saying anything next. She seems uncomfortable around my inevitable misery, fiddling with the straps on Rachel's purse. Speaking of, Rachel seems to have fallen asleep with her face pressed to the window, and I'm glad she's too busy sleeping to be sick out of the blue again.

I finally put my soccer-less keys into the ignition, quickly bringing the engine to life. "Anyway, never mind broken hearts and whatever's in the past," I say, getting ready to back out of my parking spot. "Shall we go now?"

"Sacrebleu, sí."

"Fantástico."

I don't know when we decided to have a silly spanish routine, or why Monica half-changed it to French, but I enjoy it. Plus, it is only making me about ten times more desperate to see her wearing that stupid mexican hat.

My dear LeSabre starts to groan a bit underneath us, probably out of habit, too, and then off we march into the road. Finally.

Monica tells me she lives in The Village, as if that's not inaccurate enough, and that she's going to give me directions once we're there. I'll have to take the risk, I suppose.

We ride in silence for a few minutes, in which I just drive with one hand out the window and the other one around the wheel, and Monica carefully inspects every little thing inside the car. At one point, she pulls an empty Burger King paper bag from under her seat—damn you, Joey—and then puts it back as if the incident never took place.

After a couple of minutes, she slides two fingers inside my cassette player and says, "You don't have any music in here?"

"Nope."

She eyes me like I'm insane. "Why?"

"I dunno. No real reason."

And that's it. That's the whole exchange. However, Monica doesn't seem completely satisfied with my unsatisfying answer, and starts humming an unspecified song in the back of her throat.

I'm not going to lie to you: I'm not liking the silence nor the song. I think the pleasant sound of us having a fluid conversation would be a lot better.

After a while, bless her, she gets an idea to get the ball rolling. "Oh!" She snaps her fingers. "You said you worked to buy this car, right?"

I snap my fingers, too. "Right."

"Okay, so what do you do?"

"Uh, it was sort of a paid internship at an office during the summer. Boring stuff with numbers and all, but it paid very well." I pat the steering wheel with all the love I can manage. "And I got this baby out of it, so it all turned out great."

"Oh, so you don't do it anymore?"

"No." I shake my head. "Actually, they liked me alright, and wanted to keep me around, like, more long-term and stuff, but I think I'd decided by then that I wanted to focus on more important stuff."

"What more important stuff?"

"Like college."

"Oh, so you still go to college?" she asks, surprised. She's about to find out what a big slacker I am. "How old are you?"

"Just turned twenty-three this month. You?"

"I'll be twenty-two this year," she says, and then frowns. "But wait, you're twenty-three and you're still in college? Are you, like, in one of those medical schools where you have to study for about fifty years to get a degree?"

I laugh a bit because of such a crazy idea. Me, a doctor. "Not at all." I signal to take a turn. "Truth is, I should've finished last year like a normal person, but I got a bit sidetracked and did other stuff when I should've been studying. I still got a few courses left and then I'm done—finito."

"And why did you do other stuff?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I dunno. I was a bit unmotivated, to be honest. I think I'm more focused this year because I wanna finish already, y'know, but I don't think happiness will ever be related to work anyway. Not in my case, at least."

"No, huh?" This woman seems to like asking lots of questions I'm not entirely comfortable answering, so her next sentence is—guess what!—a question: "What then?"

"Well, I don't know." I rub my chin, mocking deep thought. "If I knew, I'd be happy all the time, right?"

She giggles, tracing invisible lines along the dashboard. "You got me there, yeah."

Given she got the last say and it wasn't a question, the conversation suffers from it. We drive in silence for a bit—the car still groaning—and I figure I should be the one to ask something now.

"So, anyway," I clear my throat a bit. "Are you in college, too?"

"Not quite," she says, stopping her fingers from running across my dashboard. "I go to a culinary school, because I'm hoping to be chef. I've only got a couple of months left, in fact."

"Yeah? You any good?" God, that's so cool. I wish I was so certain about that kind of stuff. "You're probably the first person I've met with that has any cooking skills, y'know."

"Of course I'm good. I'm fabuloso, in fact." She touches her nose, and I laugh. "I already got an offer to work at a restaurant and I haven't even finished yet. I'm supposed to start working mid-August."

"Wow, really?" I take one hand off the wheel and reach it out to squeeze her arm—I don't know where all this bravado comes from. "That's so cool, Monica! That's fantastic! Congratulations!"

"Thank you!" she says, grinning. "I could probably be congratulating you too, if you, y'know, worked a little harder, you lazy ass."

"Hey, come on, don't pressure me—life's hard, man."

"Really," she says, as if the expression I just used is unheard of and crazy. "Compared to what?"

"What?"

"You just said life's hard, and I asked you that compared to what is life hard. Just want you to think about it."

A small frown spreads across my face. "Oh, okay."

"And well?" she insists.

"Jeez, I don't know." I steal brief looks in her direction. "Compared to a lot of things. Hell, Candyland's easy, I don't know..." I trail off, giving it a thought. "Masturbating."

"I don't think you understood my idea very well, but I'm more interested in whether you usually say that kind of hot stuff in front of the ladies." She's kind of smiling, kind of not. I can't really tell. "Seriously, no wonder you're single."

See, I know she's just trying to playfully tease me—or at least I hope so—but that doesn't mean what she just said stings any less. I know I wouldn't have said that to her, and that's what stays with me. By the by, I may get a little defensive.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say with a scowl. "Am I not allowed to say Candyland in front of you and your passed out friend? Well, too bad."

And I must be a conversation killer, because that's it again. At least for a few seconds, until Monica asks me if I'm mad, and I tell her that I'm fine, just fine. Which, in a way, I am.

I think we mutually decide to put an end to our trying-to-know-each-other phase, at least for this ride, because when I ask her very politely to open the glove compartment for me and pass me my lighter and a cigarette, she starts rambling about the disadvantages, risks, and cons of smoking, by which point I've definitely tuned out.

By the time she's finished, it's time for her to give me directions, and honestly, I'm really glad she can cook, because she can't direct shit. We get lost three times, and when she points out that "this street looks familiar, I think mine's just a little bit ahead," for the fifth time, I don't think I believe her that much.

However, she's freaking right this time, of course. When I find a place to park, I take passed-out-Rachel in my arms, and find out she's definitely lighter when she's unconscious.

Once we get to the door of her apartment building and Monica's looking for her keys inside Rachel's purse, I take a peek at the intercom and ask her where she lives. "Number 20," she says, flinging the door open.

Geller & Green, the tag in the intercom says. "Hmm. Monica Green?" I venture, setting foot into hall territory. "Monica Geller?"

"Monica Geller."

"It's nice," I say, shifting Rachel in my arms a bit.

"Thank you." She smiles as we start walking up the stairs, and then goes, "What's yours?"

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen." I scrunch up my face. "You mocked me because my name's Chandler. If I told you my last name you'd seriously have a laughing fit so severe that you'd probably die—you should thank me right now. I have your best interests at heart here."

"Whoa, boy, stop being so mysterious," she mocks, flailing her arms in the air. "It's probably not that bad."

"No, it probably is."

When we get to apartment 20 and Rachel's weight is starting to take its toll on me, Monica pulls her keys out of Rachel's purse and I don't even know what happens next, because something manages to catch my attention—she freaking added my plastic ball to her collection of keychains and I was too busy smoking to notice. This makes me feel so freaking giddy, it's ridiculous.

The door swings open and Monica guides me towards Rachel's bedroom. I lay her on top of her neatly made bed and then awkwardly stand around with my hands in my pockets, until Monica looks at me, as if silently telling me that she'd like to help Rachel change out of her fancy clothes, and she'd like to do it in private. I take the hint and flee from the bedroom, entering their kitchen-slash-living room.

This apartment is big. That's the first word that pops into my head when it comes to description. And well, purple. It's heavily decorated, too, but everything looks like it's obsessively put in its own designated place.

Honestly? It's kind of making me wish I could turn it un-purple and live here. Joey's not a terrible roommate or anything, but he does like to leave things around, and I'm not exactly a fan of how his shoes seem to be _everywhere._ I don't know, I think I deserve something a bit better, apartment-wise, and this is making me crave for it.

It's cool. It's like the apartment of a grownup. It's... okay, that grownup thing is scary. Before I can freak out, I start snooping around, checking some framed pictures placed around the living room.

"Thank you so much, Chandler," Monica suddenly calls in the middle of my snooping, carefully shutting Rachel's door behind her. "For everything, seriously. I don't even know how to repay you."

"It's no big deal, really." I wave my hand around. "I'm dying a bit of thirst here, so maybe give me a glass of water and we're even."

"Perfect," she chuckles, approaching a cabinet to take a glass out of it, and then quickly filling it with tap water. "Here, all yours," she says, offering it to me.

"You're a life-saver, ma'am," I say. I've never taken anything with more enthusiasm in my life—I quickly down the whole thing.

"Ah, by the way, stay here a minute," she says, walking backwards. "I wanna give you something."

"Oh, okay," I stutter. "Sure."

While I place the now empty glass in the middle of the sink, Monica goes through the other door—her bedroom, I assume—and I listen as she tries to fish for something she apparently wants to give me.

"So, tell me, how did you end up rooming with Rachel?" I venture.

"We've been friends since forever—it seemed logical," she calls from her room. "Do you live with your friend from the party?"

"Uh, Joey." I walk around and pick up another frame, not even looking at it, but trying to distract myself with something. "Yeah."

"And how did that happen? No offense, but you guys look pretty dissimilar." I don't know how I should react to that, or why it could be considered offensive, but I think it's best if I don't dwell on it too much.

"Um, long story short: I met him at a party, like, four years ago." I carefully put the picture back in its place, while Monica still goes through stuff in her room. "We've been really good friends since, and when he told his folks he wanted to be an actor, he decided to make the big move to Manhattan. He told me about it when I was a bit tired of living in a dorm, so we started looking for an apartment together. He's a really good guy, kind-hearted and all," I say as Monica finally goes out of her bedroom, her hands behind her back. "And it's easy to live with him, too. He just watches TV and likes women too much, that's all."

Monica nods along with every word I say, kneeling on the armrest of her comfortable-looking couch while I'm left standing on the other side, the back of the couch separating us. "Seems like a good guy," she says.

"He is." I nod, biting my lip and balancing myself a little on my tiptoes. I point at one of the pictures sitting on top of a small table next to the sofa and say, "Listen, you know this guy?"

She takes one hand from behind her back, picks up the frame and raises her eyebrows. "This guy?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Sure I do. That's my brother."

I gape at her. "That guy's your brother?"

"Yeah!" she exclaims, putting down the frame. "How do you know my brother?"

"We shared a freaking dorm for two years, that's how!"

"No way!" I've never witnessed a mood that wasn't even somber to begin with change that suddenly. "You go to NYU?"

"Of course I do!" I say, a little too loud. I'm afraid that, in all our excitement, we might wake Rachel up. "Didn't I tell you that before?"

"No, you didn't!" Monica doesn't seem to care about Rachel, though. She's so wrapped up in the news that she's even retreated her other hand from behind her back and is now waving it around. "Wow, so you knew Ross before you met me! The world really _is_ small, that's so freaky!"

"Wait, I don't exactly know him," I say, rolling up my sleeves that are bent on unrolling themselves. "I didn't even know his name was Ross, actually. I mean, he used to hang out with the smarter crowd, and I was friends with, well, Joey."

She seems disappointed by this unexpected turn of events. "Oh."

"But anyway, it's still cool!" I manage a half-smile. "How is he?"

"Yeah, he's alright. Tricked a girl into dating him—seems pretty serious about it."

"That's cool. Good for him." I nod, the excitement slowly wearing off of us both. Time to move on, I guess—I raise my eyebrows, and nod to whatever she's got around her fingers. "Anyway, whatever, you said you had something for me?"

"Oh, yeah!" she says, tilting her head a bit and handing me a cassette tape. "It's just a silly thing, really. The idea just struck me, like, five minutes ago."

"It's a cassette tape," I feel the need to point out.

"Yeah, for your car."

"Oh, shit, yeah!" I feel a little slow for not having realized this sooner, to be honest. "Yeah, thank you so much! I'm sure my car will appreciate it a whole lot, and so will I when I get lonely. Thanks, really."

"No problem," she says, leaning a little over the back of the couch and turning the tape around in my hands. I feel her touch all through my body. "See if you like what's in it."

A list of songs and musicians are written on the back of the case in an almost illegible handwriting, but what I can decipher is so good that even a person with awful taste in music like me can appreciate it.

"Whoa, this is fantastic." I give her a foolish and wide smile. "Your music taste is awesome."

"Thanks, but I didn't make it," she says. "An old ex-boyfriend of mine loved music and made the mix. It's a total coincidence, but since it seems like today is 'Give Away Stuff Your Partner Gave You,' I thought it'd be okay. Plus, I don't have a car, and yours seems depressingly still and quiet—you definitely need it more than I do."

I can't help but wrinkle my nose. "No offense then, but I don't think I can accept, or want, a tape you've had sex to."

"Oh, no. I haven't had sex to that." Relieved, I am. "I was fat when I dated this guy."

Okay. That's, by a mile, the revelation of the night. Never mind her jumping me to get a ride, or her friend telling me bizarre stories, or her being Dinosaur Guy's sister. This woman was fat? For real?

Surely, my first reaction is to sputter: "YOU WERE FAT?!" but I get a grip before that happens and think that, maybe, she wouldn't appreciate that shocked question too much. I don't know where this new and controlled Chandler is coming from, but thank you very much.

"So what?" I decidedly ask instead. "He was your boyfriend, wasn't he? It's his fucking loss, then."

I know this was the right thing to say, because she smiles and the entire world lights up. People that can't afford to pay their electric bills are now bathing in the wonderful light she's eliciting. Thank you very much indeed.

"Yeah," she says, that smile never faltering. A freaking chill runs down my spine. "He had awesome music taste, but that was it."

"I'm sure," I say, my smile never faltering either. I clear my throat before I lose my cool and melt. "Anyway, thanks a lot for this. Now I feel like I should've gotten you another keychain."

"And that's obviously how you should feel," she jokes. "But don't worry about it, really—my pleasure."

"Cool, thanks."

I place the tape inside my back pocket, and then clasp my hands together a little enthusiastically. To be honest, I don't exactly know what to do now. I want to stay a little longer, but I suppose I ought to simply leave now; just remember this past hour for the rest of my life, and listen to that tape on a loop.

I'm contemplating the thought of asking her for her number, though, but I don't know how she feels about the whole thing. Maybe a ride was all she ever wanted from the get go and whatever's happened in between is just part of the process. I have no clue. My stomach is starting to churn because of the idea, and not in a pleasant way.

Thankfully, her voice brings me back to reality. "Listen, random question, but: are you tired?" she says.

"Not really." Truth be told, whatever happened to my exhaustion—now I feel like I could run a goddamn marathon. "Why?"

"Well, because I'm not tired either," she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "and, I don't know, I thought that, maybe, if you're up for it, we could do something fun or whatever."

I'm sorry, but my eyes immediately and instinctively shift to her bedroom door. Don't be so surprised—I'm a guy, after all. "Wh- Like what?"

"I seriously have no idea, that's the thing," she mutters. My shoulders slump forward a bit in disappointment at the lost prospect of sex. I miss that prospect, as fleeting as it actually was. "But, like, the party was probably the problem before, and not us, individually. I don't wanna stay in my bed awake for hours, bored out of my mind, you know?"

I nod, placing my hands in my pockets. "I see."

"So maybe we could, like, hang out or do something fun; go out for a bit." She was right before, watching someone trip all over their own words is fun. In her case, it's fucking adorable. "I mean, Rachel thinks Saturday nights were created to get crazy and have lots of fun, and even though Rachel's a bit crazy herself, she's probably right, too. Don't you think?"

I make a non-committal sound in the back of my throat. "Hmm, I see."

"It's okay if you just wanna go home instead, of course," she says, hugging herself. "But, so, what do you think?"

I surprise myself by how quickly I respond: "I think that'd be awesome."


	4. All That She Wants

Chandler's car is old.

There, I finally said it. It's definitely not something a 23-year-old would—or should—exhibit proudly, but according to the way he adoringly taps the steering wheel and calls it "my baby," I'd say it is the deeply flawed love of his life. It gets to the point where it's almost captivating.

The floorboard has empty paper bags scattered around, too, something I do not find particularly impressive, and there isn't a single trace of music in this car, which was actually the most startling thing of all.

But, I think he likes the music tape I gave him, which is helping me overlook the bad things.

It's hard to tell, because he's somewhat busy driving, but the way he's been drumming his fingers on the wheel, sometimes even humming along with the tune, has excited me greatly. He likes my tape! I didn't even make it, and I feel kind of giddy about it. What's wrong with me?

I should point out, though, that his driving technique is a little out there: he hasn't had both hands around the wheel once since we got in. His left hand seems to be permanently out the window, except for when he brings it to the back of his head, and absentmindedly twirls a couple of fingers around the hair there, giving me crooked smiles along the way.

Seriously, he makes up for such recklessness with some awesome driving skills, but I think the true reason of why I don't seem to mind lies within such a swoon-worthy gesture. And I don't care how shallow this sounds—if a boy with wonderful hair can't keep his hands off it, I swoon.

Anyway, somewhere between my tape and his hair, he's started to digress about how he certainly loves pasta—I agree—but undoubtedly hates asparagus—I disagree—and then Series of Dreams comes on the tape, effectively cutting his rant short. He flashes a smile, points with the hand that attends to his hair, and says, "Hey, I like this song."

Series of Dreams is unquestionably one of my favorite songs—I enjoy its oneiric connotations and surrealistic lyrics, so my heart is flat-out swelling. "I like it, too!" I croak out, as nonchalantly as I can manage.

In any case, the whole idea of us riding along flourished when I offered to have some fun together. The problem is that once we got inside his ancestral car, our minds sort of blanked. He's been talking and talking, though, so I don't think he's even trying.

But I am. A few minutes later, we pass by a seemingly packed nightclub—hordes of people are hanging on the outside—and I throw the suggestion to go in. While everything tells me it's not the best plan in the world, maybe something will come up while we're inside.

Chandler's eyes panic briefly at the mention of "music" and "dancing," but he eventually accepts. He quickly finds a parking spot and Series of Dreams gets cut halfway through.

We walk to the door, and don't even get carded there, which, for some irrational and kiddy reason, makes me feel mature and self-accomplished. Once we're inside, I realize the word "packed" was the understatement of the century.

"Hey, looks like there's a clear spot over there," says Chandler after a while, leaning over and pointing, I don't know, somewhere. Everyone seems to be taller than me and I can't see a damn thing—maybe I've shrunk in the past 90 minutes. "We could go check?"

I make a non-committal sound he has little chances of hearing. Music is loud, clothes are sweaty, and people are sticky. Chandler assumes my non-committal sound is a yes, and takes my hand—which is also sweaty and sticky, probably—shouldering his way through all the swaying, supposedly intoxicated people, and dragging me with him.

I love it that he's taken my hand—there's something so very intimate about hand-holding when it takes place between grownups, even if it's as innocent and purpose-driven as this one. I hold on tight to him and just get blindly guided, with little care for the destination.

Once our small path keeps narrowing itself, Chandler starts walking a bit ahead, me right in tow. This is too crowded for humans to feel comfortable. I try to fix my eyes on a specific spot of his blue shirt and concentrate—it is now clinging to his back, perfectly lining all the curves, and oh, it works for a while, but then I start feeling ever so slightly claustrophobic, and something gets a strong grip around my arm, and I'm forced to come to a halt.

"Where you going so fast, gorgeous?" says the deepest, most gravelly voice ever.

I don't seem to be able to free myself quick enough. Our slippery hands get separated and I see Chandler going farther and farther without me. He doesn't seem to notice I've been hijacked and next thing I know is he gets swallowed by the immense congregation surrounding us.

I completely lose sight of him. I internally panic a lot. I look down at my arm and see this monstrous, gigantic hand wrapped around my very-tiny-in-comparison arm. "For God's sake, let me go!" I shout, jerking my arm out of his reach. Then, I allow myself to look up at him.

I'm not a basketball whiz, but now I wish I were, because I'm afraid the center of the New York Knicks is standing right in front of me, shamelessly asking me where I'm going so fast and calling me gorgeous.

Seriously, he's tall; he's a giant; he's a Gulliver among Lilliputians. I'm a little impressed on the inside, but I think I'm a little bit madder on the outside, and I definitely let it show. "Oh, don't get mad," he says, his immense eyes widening. "Sorry, couldn't help myself."

I'm pretty sure the ground beneath my feet is vibrating because of his voice, and not the music blaring from the strategically placed loudspeakers. Anyway, he's just drunk. I don't think his intentions are that ill-meant, but I want Chandler to come over here and rescue me.

"Well, help yourself next time, because I'm not interested," I snarl, watching how Chandler finally resurfaces in the distance, his brow furrowed. Hallelujah.

I make a move to go to him. Gulliver quickly moves aside and blocks my getaway path, that bastard. "No, wait. Don't go yet," he insists, by which point I see Chandler's hand innocently reaching out, admittedly quite high, to touch this guy's shoulder. "Tell me your name, eh?"

Chandler mouths the words "hey, man" as soon as he makes contact, but I don't think anyone other than himself hears that. It doesn't really matter, because Gulliver must have some serious intimacy problems, since his reaction to Chandler's innocent gesture is to abruptly turn around, instinctively jerking his arm a little, which I should tell you is pretty high up, about as high as Chandler's face.

It's as bad as you probably think: Gulliver elbows poor, funny, good-natured Chandler in the face.

With all the effort it took us to navigate through this asphyxiating mob of people, when Chandler falls to the ground because of such a tremendous blow, they all break apart immediately, as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea. It's fascinating.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?!" I yell, those words bubbling out of my chest without my noticing.

Gulliver covers his mouth with those gigantic hands. It looks like it's all been an accident, and that might be the worst part. Chandler's not lying on the floor of an over-crowded nightclub because he was trying to preserve my honor and so got into a fight, no—he's there because a giant turned around and flailed his limbs. That's pathetic.

"Man, I'm so sorry," says Gulliver, crouching down but still towering over him. I wouldn't go as far as to assert whether Chandler's mind is here or not—his eyes are squeezed shut, one hand is covering the rest of his face, and the other one is wobbling around in the air. He seems pretty spaced out.

"Come on, get off him!" I say, pushing him out of the way, and shooting daggers at him with my eyes. "Like you haven't done enough."

You see, the intrinsic beauty of that expression is in the emphasis one puts upon the word _enough_. I think I must have nailed it, because Gulliver obeys pretty fast and stays away the entire time.

"Monica," Chandler mutters, a little out of it, and I feel pretty honored to be right there on the tip of his tongue when things look grim. I kneel beside him, most people staring at us, but none of them offering to help us. "I think a big-ass monster just attacked me. Do you know him?"

I can't help it—I laugh. "No, I don't know him. Let me see," I say, cradling his face in my hands, and then revealing what seems to be a bleeding nose. A line of blood is trickling across his cheek, threatening to go all the way down to his ear. "God, Chandler, you're bleeding."

"I am?"

"Pretty much, yeah." I stop that nasty flow of blood with my fingers as good as I can. "You think you can sit up?"

"I dunno," he says in this small, childish voice. "My head's spinning pretty bad."

"Sure you can do it, come on." I take his arm and help him sit up, which surely doesn't happen without a small struggle first. He winces a little, and many droplets of blood fall on his shirt. "Oh, Jesus. Tilt your head back," I gently order, and he obeys, pinching his nose with two fingers.

"Don't laugh at me, but I think I hit my head on the floor. Everything and everybody looks super blurry to me," he mumbles, using his free hand to rub his eyes. Forgive me for thinking this now, but he's absolutely adorable. "You're kind of a blur right now, too. But don't worry, because whoa, are you a stunning one."

I blush a lot, and laugh a lot, and yeah. "I'm not stunning. Come on," I say, putting his free arm around my shoulders and then limping him all the way to the bathroom, a path that the Red Sea people are kind enough to clear for us. No further assistance, of course.

"God, I feel like I'm going to pass out," he utters when we're almost there, pressing his head to mine. "Am I going to pass out?"

"Well, I hope you're just disoriented, because I need you to decide between Men's room and Ladies' room."

"You know, I don't think I care."

So, Ladies' room it is. Thank God, Chandler's just terribly disoriented and doesn't pass out. He ends up sitting on the ground, his back pressed to the tiled wall and his legs sprawled on the tiled floor. I give him a roll of toilet paper that he can use at his own leisure, and I go and wash my hands. Then I sit down beside him, facing him.

"This sucks," he whines after a while, looking up at the ceiling, because the blood just won't stop flowing. Any fear of passing out is behind us now, fortunately. "This sucks big time."

"Yeah, I'm sorry this happened to you," I say, pulling my legs up and hugging them. "This wasn't what I had in mind when I said back at my place that I wanted to do something fun, you know."

"No shit," he says from under the piece of paper in his hand that's already soaked in dark red. "I imagine that when you said 'fun,' you didn't mean me getting elbowed in the face by Godzilla's estranged sibling."

I don't really know what to say after that quippy remark. I suppose sighing, pointing out the obvious, and saying, "You're bleeding a lot, Chandler," will have to do.

"I know," he answers. "Do you think it's gonna leave a mark?"

"No idea. I'm not a doctor, but I think he might've broken your nose. I should probably take you to a hospital," I say. "I recently got my license and I've driven, like, two times since then, but I think-"

"No, hey, don't take me to the hospital," he quickly says. "I'm fine, really."

"Well, I hope so. I kind of like your nose, so it'd be a shame if something bad happened to it," I joke. Jeez, that's such a stupid thing to say, but I say it anyway.

"Yeah, I kind of like my nose, too."

I smile. "You do?"

"Sure," he sighs, and I ask him why, which, by the way, happens to be another stupid thing to say. He rolls his eyes. "Well, I don't know. Because I can breathe through it."

"Yes, that's right."

"And my head looks kind of weird without it, who cares. God."

Just for the record, the edge in his voice is bothering me a lot. I get it: this situation is not pleasant to him. But it isn't my fault. I'm starting to miss the walking zombie that goes around calling me stunning, to be honest.

"Look, this wasn't my fault, so don't be getting all mad at me now, you jackass," I snap, and he reflexively straightens his neck and frees his nose from that blooded piece of paper that's probably useless by now.

"I'm not mad at you, Monica. I'm just mad," he calmly says, and the sudden verticality of his head causes even more blood to fall, mercilessly staining his shirt once more. "Oh, fuck."

"Here." I hand him an unused piece of paper to stop that ugly-looking hemorrhage, once and for all.

"Thanks," he weakly mumbles, and then bursts into laughter, out of nowhere. "Monica Geller, did you just call me jackass?"

His laugh is infectious: I laugh softly, too. "Yes, I'm afraid I did."

"It was kind of sexy, ya know. Do it again!"

"Shut up." I slap his arm playfully. "Jackass."

He closes his eyes and hums contentedly. "Um, excellent."

"You know," I begin, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm afraid your shirt's getting the worst part of this whole ordeal."

"Yeah. It's only my favorite shirt, so no problem."

"Don't worry. I'm sure there's, like, a secret formula to remove dried blood stains. Something that involves milk, or toothpaste, or lemon juice, or something like that," I say. I know for a fact that lemon juice is the only item there that works, but that peculiar list of things gets a big laugh out of him. I'm proud of me. "Come on, now lean your head back again."

"That's actually worse, you know," he says, pulling his mouth into this self-satisfied smirk. "When something like this happens, it works better if you lean your head forward."

"Really? See, I didn't know that."

"Well, now you do," he says, the smirk not fading. Still, he doesn't tilt his head forward either—he keeps looking at me. "It's better because when you lean your head back, it only causes all the blood to run back into your mouth, which is why mine tastes like hell right now."

"OK. Wow. That makes a lot of sense," I say. "How do you know that?"

"I used to get nosebleeds like this all the time when I was little. Eventually, my mom took me to the doctor and turns out it was because of this, like, blood vessel, or capillary, or whatever in my nose that was too small, or close to the surface, I don't know, and just kept breaking off day in, day out."

"Really?" I ask, in obvious awe.

"Yeah!" He leans his head forward at last, placing it between his legs. "The doctors did this procedure on me where they just burned the whole thing and it finally stopped breaking."

"Wow, that's fascinating."

"Thank you. I am quite a fascinating fella, in case you haven't noticed," he says, his voice partly muffled. "But, anyway, I guess this is sorta far-fetched, but I'd like to believe that Godzilla's elbow kind of un-burned it, for some reason."

"Yeah, that makes less sense, but it's alright."

He reaches out his free hand and squeezes my knee. "Hey, don't crush my dreams, woman."

My lips quirk at the corners. I see him try to crack a little smile, but then grimaces instead. "Does it hurt?"

"Not much; at least not anymore. It's mostly just annoying." He raises his head, carefully removing the tissue from his nose—no blood, finally. "Hey, would you look at that."

"It worked!" He smiles—no grimace. "Maybe it isn't broken after all."

"Heh, I told you so."

"No, you didn't."

"I didn't?" I shake my head. "Alright, but I thought about telling you so. That's gotta count for something, right?"

I chuckle. "Sure."

"Could you help me get up?" he says, looking all puppy-eyed. "I want to prevent some casualties."

"Yes, of course," I say.

Helping him get up is hard, by the way. When he's balancing his body on his Chucks at last, he makes a move to walk, but then abruptly stops and rests his hands on his knees. "Oh, boy," he whispers. I think he's in the middle of the nastiest head rush ever. I'm not sure, but it's scaring me.

I pat his head comfortingly. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah, just..." he swallows, waving one of his hands. "I mean, no. I just got, like, a dizzy spell, I guess. It'll pass."

"All right," I say, making sure he stays on his feet, because I don't want to get all persnickety about this, but if the pale color on his face is any indication, I don't think there's any blood rushing through his head at the moment. "Just in case, you've got a stall right there you can use."

He huffs a laugh, which makes me feel more at ease. "Thanks. I don't need it."

"Suit yourself." All joking aside, I think tonight will be the death of this poor guy. He's taking deep breaths now. "Seriously, are you better?"

"Yeah yeah yeah," he says in a quick succession, managing a weak smile. "Just need to, like, freshen up a bit."

"Oh. Here, I'll help you." I take him to the sink, where he splashes water on his face and I stay by his side. "I know I've already said this, but I'm sorry this happened. This is not what I wanted to do tonight, that's for sure."

He lazily scrubs off the line of blood across his cheekbone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know. I didn't mean clubbing, I'm sure of that."—Chandler puts his entire head under the faucet, giving the expression 'freshen up' a whole new meaning—"You know what I'm talking about? Because we can do that whenever. So, I don't know, I wanted to do something, like... crazy."

"Crazy?" he asks, raising his head, water dripping from his chin.

"Yeah, exactly. Something memorable, you know? Something you're not supposed to do, but that you do anyway, and then you remember it for the rest of your life. Something like that." I'm aware of how lame this sounds, by the way. Chandler looks at me funny. The lameness of my concept only makes me rant further. "You know: crazy. It doesn't even have to be too crazy. I just want to do something fun, something different, something spontaneous, something-"

"You wanna dance?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you wanted to dance, right?" He raises his eyebrows. Great, he's not even listening to me. I'm afraid the only crazy thing scheduled for tonight is Chandler's hair after he's drenched it in all that water. "Let's do that in the meantime. I'll think of something, whatever."

I give him a sideways glance. "O-okay?"

"If you don't mind being seen with a guy that looks like he just offed six people, that is," he says, pointing to his stained, previously nice, light blue shirt.

I don't really mind, and so we go dancing. Honest to God. Like we're in a Travolta movie from the seventies, or something similar.

Now that it has emptied out a little, this place looks nicer, more habitable. Besides the bar and the general merriment space where Chandler got hit, there's a stage and a mosh pit where people, I guess, dance. The stage looks like it's designed for bands to play there, but the only band up there tonight is a nondescript guy cranking up eighties tunes we all thought were super cool five years ago, but now find incredibly tacky.

Chandler leaves me to wait for him at a tall table while he gets something to drink. He comes back two minutes later with a tall glass in his hand. Everything, excluding me, seems to be tall tonight. He smiles at me, his face still rosy from the blow, but adorable.

"You want some?" he offers, taking a swig. "It's only Coke. I guess I'm gonna need the caffeine, 'cause I'm pretty beat."

"No, thanks," I say. Now I feel as if I'm forcing him to be here, and he'd rather be sleeping at home. To be honest, given how things are going, I wouldn't blame him if this were the case. "If you're too tired, you can go home if you want, you know. We could do this some other time, don't worry."

"No no, I'm just... Hey, I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine." He takes a small sip from his glass, his lips showing off a little smile beneath it. It's silly how much I wanted him to say that. He licks his lips when he's finished, and goes all, "So, tell me something about you."

"A-about me?"

"Yeah! I mean, I'm exceptionally boring and I can't stop talking about me. Hell, not even someone almost breaking my face shut me up. I figure that if the night's supposed to go on, well, I wanna know something about you. You know, besides you being a chef, and you having had that musical boyfriend, and your brother being... you know, uh..."

"Ross."

"Yeah. Ross." He takes another sip. "So, what do you like? What are you interested in? Feed me all the juicy details. I wanna know."

"Oh, I don't know." I shrug. "I like a lot of things; nothing too interesting, nothing too spectacular. Hanging out, like tonight, is fine, I guess."

That must be the worst possible response to that particular question, but he lets out this laugh that makes me feel as though what I just said is the most hilarious thing in the world. "When you say 'like tonight,' what you really mean is you like it when guys punch each other for your attention, right?"

"You didn't exactly do any punching, but yes, that's exactly what I mean," I say, my smile suddenly matching his. I don't know how this happened. "I get my jollies that way, it's fantastic."

"Really? Whoa, that _is_ fantastic," he says. "And I took the blow, which, if possible, is even more honorable, by the way."

"It is!" I smile broadly.

And then he stares at me. Like, really. Like, it would be creepy if I weren't staring right back at him with the same amount of intensity. And then he blurts, "You're so cute," adorably biting his upper lip afterward, and I love it, but still, my ego deflates a little, because of all the things in the world, to him I'm just cute. I mean, puppies are cute!

"I'm cute?" I wonder.

"Yeah..." he says, and then catches on real fast. "Yeah! I mean, you're a lot of things. Cute's just one of 'em."

OK, this is as official as it gets—I want him to kiss me. Hard. I've never had a guy look at me like he is looking at me right now, and that's all I need to know for now. I want to make out with a Chandler, full of niceness and mysterious mothers and secret last names, and I'll admit it.

Seriously, who cares if I barely know him and therefore it's indecent—with all this intense staring, we've practically had mental sex with each other and just have failed to realize it. Who knows, maybe if I work up all the courage, I'll plant a big one on him myself.

How weird and embarrassing it'd be, though, if I stuck my tongue down his throat, only to find out he isn't interested in me at all. Shoot, I'm a little ambivalent now. I don't want to make a fool out of myself.

"You don't dance?" he suddenly asks, startling me out of this trance.

"No. I don't know," I say, blinking. "I mean, yes. I was just waiting for you."

"Oh, no no no no no no." He shakes his head furiously, as if six noes weren't enough. "I don't dance. I _can't_ dance. I'll get this out of the way now, Monica: coordination's not my strong suit. I was actually expecting you to dance without me, have some fun yourself, and then get the hell out of this place together."

"Are you serious?" He nods. It's sweet that he wants me to have fun at all costs, but still. "Oh, come on! Don't be like that, Chandler. Take a good look around you, nobody here can really dance."

"Yeah, well. I don't care. They're all Fred Astaire reincarnated if you compare them to me, OK?"

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm having none of that, come on." I tug him toward the mosh pit as All That She Wants starts to play, and although he wrinkles his nose at first, he quickly chugs his Coke down and sets the tall glass on the tall table, not really complaining.

But we don't dance. Not really. He mostly stands around awkwardly, and who am I trying to fool—I'm no Ginger Rogers, either. All That She Wants comes and goes without much fuss, and something from, I'm not sure, Lionel Richie starts playing next.

Ballads can be awkward when two oddballs happen to find each other, but I'll spare him the embarrassment. I hug him tightly as if he's a toothpaste tube I'm trying to use up, and he reciprocates, though a little more tenderly. It's nice. Real nice. I wonder if perhaps his chest was specifically made for my head to fit in.

I've decided I'm not as desperate as to take the plunge myself. If he wants to take that first step, then it'll be his problem and anxiety to deal with. But boy, do I want him to take the plunge.

After a while, and after Mr. Richie or whoever is singing gets too sugary for our taste, Chandler whispers into my ear, "Listen, can we talk?" while I unconsciously play with his still damp nape hair, and I tell him that yes, we can, and he says that it'd be better if it were in a more quiet place, and so he guides me out the front door and into the street, where the wind is biting and Gulliver is smooching a stranger in the corner. That fool almost ruined my night, but I'm glad he didn't succeed.

"So," I give in eventually when he doesn't say anything, "what is it?"

Chandler takes his hands out of his pockets and runs his fingers through his hair, which is a gesture he should definitely stop doing if he wants me to preserve my clearmindedness. Anyway, nevermind. Moving on.

"Uh, you said," he clears his throat, "before," more throat clearing, "that you wanted to do something crazy," he mumbles, and then fixes me with a stare. "Right?"

Of course, what I'm thinking now is that this is it. This is his cue to give me that long-awaited kiss, and I'm certain of it. I don't know why this qualifies as crazy, but I've had plenty of guys say weirder things before kissing me for the first time. Heck, I'll take it.

"Right," I simply say, anticipation rushing through every little part of me. If I didn't know better, I would've puckered my lips.

"Well, so I've been thinking about it, and I think I finally came up with something. Billy Ocean was so boring and mellow that he made me think, you see," he smirks. Not Lionel Richie then? Well, all right. "It could be sorta dangerous, but that's what makes it crazy, right?"

I eye him funny. "Right."

"So what do you think?" he asks, visibly excited. "You up for it?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, perfect! Let's go to the car then," he says, already taking off. "I'll explain things a bit on the way!"

And I'm disappointed, but excited. Who knew, he was listening to me after all.

When we get to the car and the engine of his prehistoric vehicle starts to hum again, though, I'm pretty happy to find that the disappointment wears off eventually, but the excitement stays a little longer. Chandler and I are going to do something crazy.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long, and I very sincerely hope you all remember what this was about. The thing is, I've been very busy—I had to move out of my apartment, which was a deeply unpleasant experience from beginning to end, since I've got lots of crap and we had no ride to move the stuff. And anyway, when I finally got back to this I realized I'd forgotten how to write.

Oh, and all that she wants is NOT another baby. The Kooks made a cool cover of that Ace of Base song, so I just thought I'd use it. All that she wants, actually, is a good make out session with nice guy Chandler Bing. But hey, don't we all, my friend?

Anyway, I don't know why Chandler always gets hit and uncontrollably bleeds in my fics. I swear I'm fond of the guy.


End file.
